


There Can Be No Peace

by VendelynSilverhawk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Act 3, DA II drabbles, Gen, Just a look into Hawke and Anders as they come to the end, Justice/Vengeace is bipolar disorder, Leadup to DAI, M/M, and even without him Anders is probably clinically depressed, i am not a mental health expert, or at least experiencing cognitive dissonance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 21:53:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6584017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VendelynSilverhawk/pseuds/VendelynSilverhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look into a Hawke/Anders rivalmance in Act 2, from "Justice" to the end of the game.<br/>*<br/>Hawke passed Anders a teacup and watched him drink. His lover’s pale hands were trembling, and the back of his neck burned when Hawke settled his hand on it.<br/>“What now, then?” Anders whispered.<br/>“Now… we make a promise, to each other,” Hawke said. He shifted so that he was next to Anders instead of behind him, and pressed their foreheads together- one cool, one afire. “The Circle needs to change, and so does the Order, but change doesn’t happen overnight. Kirkwall can’t afford more violence. I don’t want to see innocents get hurt.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Can Be No Peace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiphard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiphard/gifts).



> I wrote this at like 2am, after I finished DA2 in an Anders rivalmance for the first time (If you haven't rivaled him before, DO IT NOW. It's a much more in-depth look into his character, and you get to see more of what Anders actually struggles with than you do in a friendmance).
> 
>  
> 
> UPDATE: this fic has been edited in response to Xo's comment and rightful worries. I'd also like to add that just because I wrote this and played Garrett Hawke this way doesn't mean I condone his behavior. Anders is a very obvious metaphor for those who struggle with mental illness, something I'm not excessively acquainted with or educated on. The edits I made were in consideration to this. Just because Garrett was his rival doesn't mean Hawke doesn't love him, it just means he recognizes that a lot of Anders' views and methods are spoken by someone not necessarily in their right mind. This Hawke advocates for freedom, but at a slower pace with consideration for the innocents who might get caught in the crossfire (like his family). The way I wrote him, I think he was too slow in moving to make change, but he is what he is, and this story is what it is. The way I wrote this, it's Anders struggling with his own mind, and Hawke struggling to reconcile his position as Champion, his beliefs as a person, and his duty to the man he loves to be patient and forgiving and kind. 
> 
> All of that said, if you do have concerns about the way I wrote this, please tell me- if I'm unintentionally hurting people via my stories, because I didn't research something enough or give it enough attention, I need to know. Thank you.

It wasn’t the first fight they’d ever had- a relationship like theirs, it was impossible for it to be peaceful all the time- but it was by far the worse, and as Hawke entered the Chantry he realized that the consequences wouldn’t just be limited them. Not anymore.

                _“I care for you- that doesn’t mean I agree with every decision!” Hawke yells, struggling to rein in his voice as he looks at Anders and searches, desperately, for some hint of reason._

 For years Anders had clung to the belief that mages deserved freedom, and to a point Hawke wasn’t opposed to that. The corruption he saw in Kirkwall’s Circle was unforgivable in the scope of its cruelty towards the charges it was meant to protect. But he had also seen too much of Kirkwall’s magical rot to let all mages walk out of the Gallows with no oversight. Even his father and Bethany had had careful training, training not every hidden or runaway apostate had.

                _“I am the cause of mages. There is nothing else inside me. You cannot profess to love me and despise everything I stand for.” On this point, Anders won’t budge. If Hawke loves him, he will do whatever Anders asks._

How had they gotten here? To the point where Hawke wasn’t even sure of the Anders walking next to him? When had patience and moderation become an impossible request from the man he loved?

                “ _Tell me what you would have of me, then. But I won’t forget you blackmailed me to get it.” The mighty Champion of Kirkwall, brought low by his slowly suffering heart._

Hawke was afraid of how close to open tears he had been in that moment. Alone with Anders in the little Darktown clinic that still represented the best of the spirit healer, talking to a veritable stranger. Being twisted into doing something whose consequences he feared just because he feared more the thought of driving Anders away from him forever. And distance was the last thing he needed right now if he was ever going to help Anders maintain his right state of mind.

                Anders was… complicated. Hawke was painfully aware that he didn’t know the Anders that came before Justice, and that he had no right to hope for a future without Justice in it. Time would be spent when Anders was in dark places, when Justice pressed for violence and all he could do was hold his lover and be patient.

                But this was not one of those moments. This was Justice winning, because fighting with Anders could push him into dangerous territory. More dangerous than whatever they were doing now, though… Hawke couldn’t be sure.

                The Chantry was unusually quiet- these days in Kirkwall it was usually fairly populated at all hours, what with the unrest in the streets and rapidly failing faith in the Templar order. The Grand Cleric was the only one who could make the people believe in the chance for peace. And she refused to take sides or speak up at all.

                For one quick moment, walking beneath statues of Andraste’s grim visage and the ever-burning incense globes, Hawke felt the snap of anger that Anders was probably all too familiar with at this point. Elthina could act but chose not to, so now Hawke was here to distract her while Anders did something both of them would no doubt regret, that Hawke wasn’t even sure he would be able to undo.

                “Champion,” Elthina inclined her head and smiled. “It is good to see you take solace in the presence of the Maker. Is there something I can do for you?”

                “Yes, actually,” he said. His throat was dry. _Tell me why you won’t end this madness, why you’re determined to make sure that my blades will end a war when your counsel could stop it from even happening._ “I was wondering if I could have your blessing.”

                _I was wondering if you’d finally decide to flee the city, and save yourself like you’ve been warned to do so many times before._

“Of course.” He bowed his head. Elthina’s gloved hand rested lightly on his feather-dark hair, a crude reminder of the way Anders loved to play with it on the mornings they were bold enough to linger in bed instead of letting Kirkwall ruin their peace with endless cries for help. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

                He lifted his head and Elthina smiled. “And blessed are you, Champion of Kirkwall, for doing the Maker’s will in these troubled times. May His wisdom and guidance go with you. Now, is there anything else you need?”

                “Actually, yes. I _need_ to know why you refuse to speak out about the mages and Templars,” he said. “You could check Meredith and Orsino with a word, but you don’t.”

                Elthina’s tone was indulgent, but her face was tired beyond belief. “Neither side is absolutely right, but neither is absolutely wrong. They are imperfect versions of what they should be, but that does not dismiss the fact that the Templars are doing their duty, and that maleficarum in Kirkwall grow stronger by the day. Sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is stand back and pray to see the Maker’s will unfold.”

                “I can’t condone inaction. You know I can’t.”

                “Just like I know that your path and mine are different,” Elthina said assuredly.

                Before he could say anything Anders was by his side, tugging on his sleeve and looking nervous. Relief washed his voice when he touched Hawke’s skin.

                “There you are! I was looking everywhere for you.” Everything about the body beneath his shockingly dark mages’ robes was tense. Anders wouldn’t meet Elthina’s eyes when she turned to him, and her shrewd eyes narrowed. Her brow furrowed in sympathy.

                “I can see your soul is troubled, child,” she murmured, reaching a hand out that Anders stepped back rather than let touch him. Elthina let it fall. “I know who you are, and I will pray that you found some peace here.”

                “Thank you, Grand Cleric,” Hawke said quickly.

                “Good day, Serah Hawke.”

                _Maker forgive me._

They left the silent halls together, Hawke pretending he didn’t notice Sebastian ducking out of a side room and watching them with curiosity. Of all the things he’d ever thought he would do for love…

 

No, it wasn’t the first fight they’d ever had, and now it wasn’t even the worst.

                “Listen to yourself, Anders!” Hawke cried, voice taut with barely-controlled anger. With desperation. With fear. “You lied to me about the potion to separate Justice and you, and you refused to tell me why you needed me to distract the Grand Cleric-”

                Anders’ shoulders slumped as he leaned over the railing of the Amell Estate’s inner balcony. “I told you, Hawke. I’m a liar. I’m a monster. I never claimed I would do anything but hurt you.”

                He felt like he had been dealt a blow to the chest, all of the breath sucked from him.

                “And I told you I am not fragile. I came into this with my eyes open,” he said. “I forgive you. I will always forgive you. So, whatever you did… there’s time to undo it.”

                A beat.

                “Time…?” Anders turned slowly, profile silhouetted by the firelight from the hearth below. The hush that had grown between them on the walk back to the mansion, that had been broken by Anders’ joyous declaration of purpose- _“It’s the purest human ecstasy, Hawke- you can’t imagine it. What it feels like for Justice to finally fulfill its purpose after so many years.”_ \- and further driven away by Hawke’s horror, was back. It was small, and strained, but there as Anders turned to him with what looked like growing hope. “Time. Yes, there’s still time.”             

                “Just tell me-”

                “ _No!_ ” Blue cracks across his skin, blue flooding his eyes with light Hawke had come to associate with bad decisions and screaming and blood and Anders’ guilty, guilty eyes in the aftermath. Anders was gone, and inside his manor, in the fading afternoon light, a spirit. An abomination.

                “Justice, I presume?” Hawke asked lightly, unable to conceal his bitterness. Not inclined to. The angry Fade spirit was taking everything of the man he loved and twisting it until Anders was unrecognizable even in his own body. They didn’t even move the same way.

                “ _You have no purpose here_ ,” the spirit roared. “ _Leave, and cease your distractions!_ ”

                Anger, again, burst in his chest, an all-powerful red tide that had been building ever since he was a boy. Anger that his father taught him to control, that love and friendship had encouraged him to put aside. That losing his brother, and sister, and mother, had only served to feed. Anger that Anders dealt with every day and could only control to a point. Hawke forgave that anger every time.

                “Leave Anders alone!” Hawke yelled, advancing until he was close enough to feel the prickle of the raw Fade on his skin. Justice didn’t blink.

                “ _I_ am _Anders_ ,” he hissed. Hawke reached out and dared to grab his wrist and squeeze-

                And it was over. The blue rushed away and suddenly the room was inexplicably darker than it had been before. Anders stumbled, stared at Hawke’s hand long enough for Hawke to let go as if burned, to step away himself.

                “What- what just happened?” Anders gasped.

                “You don’t know?!”

                “I’m having more blanks in my memory,” Anders said as he rubbed his temple, looking at Hawke with what must have been fear. “It’s like… the longer we go, the less of me there is.”

                _So why didn’t you tell me? Anders, what possessed you to hide this?_

Worse- how did he fail to notice it?

                “You were right all along- I never should have done this. Being with you, loving you… I thought it would make a difference, but he’s too strong.”

                “Anders-”

                “I’ve tried my best. Don’t hate me for failing,” he said miserably. Then before Hawke could say anything or move to physically stop him- as if he knew what he would say, anyways- he stumbled away, thin hands gripping the banister as he forced his way down the stairs. Across the main sitting room. Out the door.

                Not an hour ago he had stood in the Chantry and been told the Maker was watching over him. Now he was watching his lover practically run away, knowing that beneath the Anders he loved was a spirit of Vengeance that wouldn’t stop until Kirkwall’s streets ran with blood.

 

There was a time in his life where Garrett Hawke considered himself a sensible person, all things considered. Mages needed training and oversight but not abuse. Templars needed the authority to act but to also remember that their holy mandate included mages in the circle of those they needed to protect. If he called someone a friend it didn’t mean that he would forgive them their every trespass, but that he loved them enough to hold them accountable, and drive them to be better.

                He could sacrifice Merrill’s good opinion of him if it kept her from pursing blood magic. He could weather Fenris’ anger if it meant that Fenris didn’t have his own sister’s blood on his hands. He could live with his baby sister being imprisoned in the danger of Kirkwall’s Circle, because he knew Bethany no longer had the heart for apostasy, and because freeing her would only cause more harm than good. One day he planned to see her free but they had agreed that that day could not come with bloodshed.  

                Garrett Hawke was willing to go to extreme lengths to protect and preserve order. Even if it meant protecting those he loved from themselves.

                But giving into his attraction for Anders had never been sensible, nor had the decision to fall in love been. And was. A decision. That was one of the few lessons of his father’s that actually stuck with him.

                _“We can’t help attraction and desire- they’re as natural to us as breathing, and just as fickle,” Malcolm Hawke says, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder as he councils a boy of fifteen, heart broken by the smith’s daughter. “But love is a choice, Garrett. Love is the choice to get to know a person deeply, with the intent to stay by their side forever, body and soul. It is the choice to remind yourself what you find attractive about them, to forgive what you don’t. To stand with them even if your heart tells you that desire is gone. That’s how I know this wasn’t love.”_

                Hawke wasn’t in the habit of lying to himself, so he heard his father’s voice in his head as soon as he saw Anders for the first time. It was desire. The feeling that followed, when he realized that not only was Anders an ex-Grey Warden apostate, but he was a Fereldan refugee risking himself to heal his countrymen for free, was attraction. Sensible Garrett Hawke should have recognized those feelings and waited for them to fade in any of the years that he and Anders grew closer.

                Instead, he chose to visit Anders first after Bethany was taken. And be honest when he told Anders that Justice was a mistake. And not to yell when Justice almost killed a mage girl just for daring to call him a demon. It was all of these choices that eroded the belief that Garrett Hawke was a sensible man. Because sensible men did not love abominations and stay in love.

                “Messere?” Orana’s timid voice tore him from the hurricane of thoughts, but it took long enough for him to really see her that, in the instant between sight and recognition, he looked down. He was standing just where Anders had, hands locked around the stone balcony. Shoulders hunched.

                Maker, he kept forgetting how tiny Orana was when she snuck up on him like that.

                “I’m going out, Orana,” he sighed. “If anything happens while I’m away, send for-”

                “Fenris, at the derelict mansion in the Chantry district, and Varric, at the Hanged Man in Lowtown,” she recited easily, as though already preparing the instructions for a courier. Hawke nodded gratefully as he ran a hand through his hair.

                “Thank you. I don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait up for me, and don’t worry about dinner.”

                She nodded, accompanied by a small “Yes messere” as he strode past her and down the stairs. Anders could have been anywhere, but Anders was a grown man with the might of the Fade at his fingertips. He would be fine.

                Hawke needed a drink.

 

“Well what did you expect, shacking up with a revolutionary stick-up-his-ass?” Isabela asked, one eyebrow raised sardonically as she peered at Hawke from across the table. Hawke ran a hand over his face and sighed deeply. He was much more drunk than he ordinarily let himself get, but not nearly as drunk as he needed to be.

                Wanted to be.

                “One day Anders is going to throw himself on a pyre and fight anyone who tries to drag him off it,” she continued. “And when he’s dead, and we’re weeping over his ashes, not a single person will be better for it. Not even mages.”

                “That was surprisingly deep, Rivaini,” Varric chuckled. He hadn’t touched his drink at all.

                “What can I say? Even I have my moments. I’m still here in this pisshole after all these years, aren’t I?”

                “It’s just- I keep trying, Varric,” Hawke said. “I try to keep Hightown gossips away from Fenris, and I try to keep Merrill from hurting herself or worse, and I try to keep Aveline and Sebastian from deciding that turning over every apostate and maleficar they know over to the templars is the right thing to do, and I try to make sure Bethany is safe in that pit of vipers, and I forgive Anders for what he can’t control but when Justice gets violent I don’t know what to do, when enough is enough or… I don’t know. Some days I can’t decide if all my friends are just really stupid, or if I’m actually not as smart as I think I am.”

                “The joys of reality,” Varric agreed, and this time the chuckle wasn’t even there in spirit. “Everyone is much more behaved when I’m writing them.”

                “If the Grand Cleric doesn’t do something soon, Meredith and Orsino are going to start a war that the Maker himself can’t stop.”

                Isabela winked suddenly, leaning across the table so Hawke could feel her warm breath on his face. “I hear that’s why we have _champion_.” And then she rocked back, laughing like that was the funniest thing in the history of drunk humor.

                “Hawke.” This time Varric was downright grim, and even Isabela took notice. Meaning, she countered his gravity with another few chugs of her drink. “You’ve been slaving over this city as long as I’ve known you, in dark corners or helping little old ladies cross the road to Hightown. One of these days, you’re going to have to accept that you can’t fix everything, and not everyone is willing to listen to reason.”

                Hawke looked at Varric for a long time. Then he moved to take a drink, stopped. Tossed it all back.

                “Tell me when the day comes, will you?” he said cheerily. “I don’t think I’ll be able to tell it from the rest unless it starts with fireworks.”

 

Anders was asleep when he finally came home, at that indeterminate hour between sunset and sunrise in the kind of dark where all times look the same. Tiptoeing up the stairs so as not to wake anyone Hawke inched into the room. What he wouldn’t give to collapse into bed for at least a few hours of sleep before he was needed again.

                But-       

                Hawke sagged against the bedpost closest to the door and tried to stop the painful, wrenching ache from rising in his chest. Anders was there, curled up on his side of the bed with the covers barely pulled over him. Hawke had escaped most of the evening’s torrential downpour by staying in the Hanged Man, and on the way back he’d had his cloak. Wherever Anders had gone had shown no mercy, apparently.

                He still wore his mud-caked boots and his hair was a wet tangle on the soaked pillow, his clothes drenched and bleeding into the bedspread. He must have come in exhausted.

                But-

                He looked so peaceful. Hawke sealed a hand over his mouth rather than risk making a noise to wake him, pulling every hurt sound inside until he was shaking. Then he slid to the floor at the foot of the bed, not feeling any warmth from the fire Orana always stoked in his hearth in the evenings, and buried his head in his hands.

                Was it pride that made him so sure he could live up to the title of Champion, or was it an honest assessment of his abilities, of his heart’s willingness to serve? In that moment the oft-repeated question was nothing but gibberish to his screaming heart. Behind closed eyes he could see Anders sleeping. It _hurt_.

He wanted Anders to be whole. He knew that this was an impossible wish, that it was vain, and selfish on his part, because if Anders was whole then Hawke wouldn’t have to endure the changing moods, the fear he constantly had for Anders’ safety and that of those around him, the anger at the way Justice steered his lover’s morals into violent places.

But aside from a miracle that separated Anders and Justice, Hawke just wanted Anders to be _ok_. “OK” didn’t seem like too much to ask for given the horror of Anders’ life so far. The scars, the trauma, the time spent in moods so low he struggled to survive- hearing that for the first time Hawke had almost started crying, had held it in only because he knew it would upset Anders rather than help- all of it was… something that they would deal with. Something that Hawke had _agreed_ to help deal with, when he told Anders he loved him.  

Anders struggled with Justice every day, but Hawke remembered seeing the light of his optimism in every conversation. Even when they were hunting proof of a “Tranquil Solution,” Anders had been so sure that some Templars would disapprove, and that the Grand Cleric would act. That Anders had faith in the system and the possibility of nonviolent change.

                That Anders was all but gone in the wake of Vengeance and now Hawke wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to bring him back. If three years of being hollowed out by the pure embodiment of an angry virtue, resisting the compulsion to correct every minor injustice he saw, unable or unwilling to ask for help, hadn’t completely destroyed Anders’ sense of self, then there was hope. There _had_ to be hope.

                “Messere Hawke?” Orana whispered, peaking her head around the door to peer at him with wide eyes. They flickered briefly to where Anders rested on the bed and then back to Hawke. “I tried to convince him to change and wash, but… it was like he couldn’t hear me. He just came in and collapsed. I’m afraid he’ll catch sick if we don’t get him out of those clothes, though.”

                Hawke took a steadying breath and quickly pulled his palms across his eyes. It upset Orana to see _him_ upset. He rose on determinedly steady feet and told Orana to start drawing a hot bath, that he would wake Anders. He would reprimand her later for staying up when he told her she should sleep.

                The timid servant would never say it out loud, no matter how many times Hawke had told her to speak her mind, but Anders made her uncomfortable. He had only ever been unerringly polite to her, and Hawke had come home on more than one occasion to see Anders sitting in the kitchen while she baked and made him tea, but Orana was also no stranger to the fouler parts of magic. From Hawke and the gossip of the rest of their friends she knew what Anders was. She had also been present for a fair few of their arguments.

                In a way, Hawke realized Orana saw everything he did. That Anders was at his heart unfailingly kind, and a better person than you were likely to find anywhere else in Thedas. But he was afflicted with a curse of Andrastian proportions, born of a single moment of pure-hearted stupidity, and that curse demanded caution no matter the person he used to be. No matter the person he used to be, he was who he was _now_. This Anders was no less deserving of love, patience, care, than the man who had come before.  

                Hawke shook Anders gently awake just as the sound of running water issued from the master bathroom.

                “Anders,” he murmured. He squeezed his lover’s shoulder, eliciting a small moan as Anders buried his face deeper into the pillow. Up close Hawke could see that the sheets were completely soaked, caked with mud where Anders hadn’t taken off his boots and the edges of his robe had trailed in puddles. “Anders, you need to wake up, _now_.”

                It was with great reluctance that Anders finally allowed himself to be roused, although he was only awake by the barest of definitions. Hawke swung an arm around Anders’ waist and pulled Anders’ closest arm around his shoulders so that he could haul the mage to his feet. For a precarious they were a scarily swaying four-legged creature of muscles and magic, before Hawke’s raw strength won out and they were headed to the bathroom. Or, Hawke was carrying Anders to the bathroom and Anders was incoherently lolling against Hawke as he let himself drag.

                “It’s almost full, here,” Orana said quickly when they entered the bathroom. She stood nervously next to the tub, wringing a cloth in her hands. At the sight of Anders in the light her eyes widened. “ _Oh_ , he-he’s so pale…”

                Hawke looked over and did a double-take. Anders _was_ pale. Waxy, almost, the gaunt planes of his cheeks apparent this close. Hawke had been pressing for him to take better care of himself for months now. This was a rude reminder that so far, nothing had been working. He wondered if Anders even remembered their fight or what happened at the Chantry at this point.

                “Thank you, Orana, you can go,” Hawke said, lowering Anders onto the bench near the tub. The willowy elf lingered.

                “Are you sure, messere?” she asked tremulously. Hawke was already kneeling to pull off Anders’ boots. His toes were like ice.

                “Positive.” He paused long enough to give her an easy smile. “I’ve got it from here. If you wanted to make some tea before going to bed, though, I couldn’t object.”

                “Of course! I’ll have it all ready for you on a tray,” she said, leaping on the alternate task that didn’t require her to try sleeping while her employer was awake and toiling. Even freedom hadn’t been able to rid her of that particular compulsion, but as it didn’t seem to bother her, Hawke let it be. It had been hard enough to stop her from calling him “Master” every time he asked for something.

                When she was gone Hawke returned to undressing Anders and maintaining the flow of hot water into the generous estate tub, throwing in a few herbal potions for good measure. Anders’ wet robes hit the floor with a tired _smack_.

                “Hawke,” he sighed into his shoulder, when Hawke moved to pull the leather tie out of his hair. The chin-length strawberry-blonde locks fell down to frame Ander’s face and tickle Hawke’s cheeks. For a moment all he could smell was rain, sweat, and beneath all of that the ever-present scent of healing magic. It was something Hawke had associated with Anders since the beginning, and then later when he started staying at the clinic more and more. In the past three years every Fereldan refugee in Darktown had become intimately familiar with the idea that the Champion wasn’t just for Kirkwall, but for them, too.

                Healing magic, herbal potions, elfroot and salves. Anders spent the majority of his days there, even though he lived with Hawke and often accompanied him on his exploits. Now he smelled like the picture of health, while his body was anything but. While his mind was anything but.

                Hawke could nearly feel the knobs of his spine as he helped Anders rise and eased him into the tub. The sound that issued from his lips was almost salacious, except that the argument from before the Chantry and after still loomed in Hawke’s mind.

                “Hawke,” Anders sighed again, thin hand rising from the water to wrap around Hawke’s wrist. “I-”

                “I don’t hate you. So… we’ll clear that up first,” Hawke said quickly, kneeling so that Anders could wind their fingers together. He looked at Hawke through hazy blue eyes- the blue of a Fereldan summer sky. The blue that Hawke woke up to every day and chose to love.

                “I’m tired, Hawke.”

                “I know.”

                Garrett Hawke, the sensible man, would have immediately asked Anders if he agreed with what had happened today. If the best parts of his mind were set on violence and blackmail now. But he just _couldn’t._

Instead he kissed Anders on the temple and pulled off his shirt and set to grabbing soap and wash clothes, and telling Anders to stay awake just enough not to slip under and drown. That was his attempt at levity.

                No-one laughed, even a little.

                _What did you do, what did you do?_ Went around and around as Hawke washed the mud and sweat and grim from Anders’ body.

                _How long have you been vanishing in front of me?_ Nagged in the back of his mind as he pulled shampoo through Anders’ hair and massaged his scalp.

                _Did I see it and ignore it, or was I blind?_ Was the only question that mattered once the water had gone cold and Hawke was lifting Anders from the tub.

                To his credit, the mage was fully awake, but was no more talkative than he had been before. Instead he dried himself in silence and took the robe that Hawke offered, before also taking Hawke’s offered hand and following back into the bedroom.

                Where Orana stood, still awake. An exasperated sound was working up from Hawke’s throat when Orana zeroed in on them and cut him off effectively.

                Still awake, but willing to cut off her “master.” He would take the little victories.

                “I made tea, and some food,” she said in her fluttery voice. “Just a little. The bed is fresh, and the fire, too.”

                “I think Orana is the real Champion here, Hawke,” Anders said tiredly, a ghost of a smile passing across his face. It was enough to brighten Orana, so… it was enough.

                “You’re absolutely right, Anders. And Champions need their sleep.” He looked sternly at her, and to her credit she didn’t wilt at all.

                “So do healers and good men,” she shot back. She almost seemed surprised at the veracity of her retort, but Hawke was already waving her away fondly.

                “Sleep. I’ll pay you extra if you promise at least eight hours.”

                Her lips thinned. Not a chance, then. “Should I still wake you up at sixth bell?”

                That was only five hours away. “Only me.”

                Anders frowned, fingers squeezing Hawke’s wrist. “Hawke-”

                “Orana?” she was halfway out the door but immediately turned full-face to him. “Only me.” She nodded and was gone, silent on bare feet.

                “I don’t hate you,” Hawke sighed as they settled on the bed, the tray of tea and heated stew and half a loaf of bread already waiting. “And I was angry at you, but I know I can’t be. So you’re going to sleep as long as you need to, and your clinic will survive, and I’ll survive, and you’re going to start telling me when you lose time and black out. Now have some tea.”

                Just because Anders wasn’t fighting now didn’t mean he wouldn’t in the morning, but Hawke took the little victory that was his silence. A few minutes later, Anders sighed.

                “Hawke- what’s happening in the Gallows is wrong. You have to know that,” he said, then ate another spoonful of stew in response to Hawke’s pointed look.

                Hawke let his chin rest on Anders’ head.

                “I do.”

                “Even without Justice, I would want it to end.”

                “I know that, too.”

                Hawke passed Anders a teacup and watched him drink. His lover’s pale hands were trembling, and the back of his neck burned when Hawke settled his hand on it.

                “What now, then?” Anders whispered.

                “Now… we make a promise, to each other,” Hawke said. He shifted so that he was next to Anders instead of behind him, and pressed their foreheads together- one cool, one afire. “The Circle needs to change, and so does the Order, but change doesn’t happen overnight. Kirkwall can’t afford more violence. I don’t want to see innocents get hurt.”

                Anders’ silence was heavy with guilt.

                “I promise that I will help you change things for mages, for the better. And you know I’ll keep that promise- what have I been doing for the past three years, helping you get mages to safety and exposing corrupt Templars? _If_ you promise me that you’ll be patient. I know Justice is pressuring you, but we can do this together if you just _wait_. Give me long enough to find a path that doesn’t end in bloodshed or your martyrdom,” Hawke said.

They would never agree on certain things- Anders’ eloquent and oft-scattered manifesto was proof of that, as were the numerous magic scars that Hawke sported both visible and non- and only a fool would think that tonight was the lowest they would get. This wasn’t the dark before the dawn.

This was sunset, and Hawke knew they had a long night ahead of them.

“Do you promise?”

This time, his voice was laced with tentative hope. At last, they were united in this. “I promise.”

 

Kirkwall was burning. It seemed impossible for it to have happened so quickly, so soon- had it really only been three days since he and Justice nearly came to blows about Anders?- but as he raced through the streets with Varric, Fenris, and Isabela he could already see the fires starting in the lower districts. They passed a Templar leaning against a nearby building, bloody hands plastered to her neck.

                “Ser!” Hawke called as he trotted forward. “What’s happened? Where are the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter?”

                “They went ahead to the Chantry, Champion,” the knight gritted out.

                “What happened to your neck? Do you need help?”

                She shook her head but couldn’t hold back a grimace. “The Knight-Commander tried to stop the First Enchanter and his people by force. I’ll live, but there are already Templars and mages fighting at the docks.”

                The Templar’s eyes are wide and wild. Fenris curls his lip. “Of course. They cannot leave well enough alone- now they seek to put everyone in danger.”

                “We told them to stop, Champion,” the Templar gasped. Hawke was suddenly aware of the body slumped in the alley near them, half-hidden in evening’s shadow but easily discernable now that he knew what he was looking at. The body wore mage robes, and wasn’t moving. “They didn’t listen. We told them- we told them to return to the Gallows, but they _wouldn’t listen._ We didn’t want- Maker. We didn’t mean to kill anyone, then the mages started fighting back…”

                “Get yourself to a healer,” Hawke ordered, mustering every authoritarian bone in his body to make sure the obviously young recruit followed his orders. “And then return to the Gallows. I’m going to find Meredith and Orsino and put a stop to this.”

                “But- the order dictates-“

                “ _Go_ ,” Hawke reiterated, and the young woman might have been a Templar but she was barely Bethany’s age, and she couldn’t disobey Kirkwall’s Champion. She took one long look at the still body and then retreated down a side street.

                If Hawke angled his gaze just right down the sloping road, he could see the pinpoints of firelight at the docks.

                “Well. That’s not good,” Isabela frowned.

                “No, it’s not,” Hawke agreed, before turning and continuing towards the Chantry district. “But it isn’t too late for you all to leave- I have a feeling that this time, Meredith and Orsino won’t listen to reason.”

                “Ah, in that case, I think I’ll just abandon you right now, because I’ve never enjoyed walking into danger, see, and none of us are really all that fond of you- ugh, even I can’t keep this up,” Varric snorted, keeping pace with Hawke and looking just as determined. “We’ve not going anywhere, Hawke.”

                And what a miracle that was. When the messenger had found him the Hanged Man with Orsino’s cry for help, Hawke had expected Fenris to come without question- much as his position on magic had mellowed with time and proximity to Bethany, he was still very much opposed to the loss of the Circle. If the Knight-Commander was cracking down on the First Enchanter, he wanted to be there to make sure no mage stepped out of line.

                Varric… well, he was right. He’d never shied away from danger, and the years following the Deep Roads expedition had only served to cement his friendship with Hawke. Kirkwall was his home, his muse, and his dearest love. If anything city-shattering was happening, the dwarf would be there.

                Why Isabela had left her drinking to join them Hawke couldn’t even begin to guess though. Running into a brewing fight with no expectation at all of reward was the opposite of the survive-first conscience-later woman Hawke knew. But still, she was here, daggers gleaming, and she looked eerily determined as they forced towards the heart of the city.

                The Chantry.

               

"Blood magic! Where do you _not_ see blood magic? My people cannot sneeze without you accusing them of corruption!" Orsino’s tone was dripping with bitterness, and when Hawke finally made it to the Chantry courtyard the only thing between his acusing finger and Knight-Commander Meredith was Aveline, there with a small compliment of guards and an absolutely withering expression.

"Do not trifle with me, mage. My patience is at an end,” Meredith spat.

"A wonder that I never saw it begin!"

"What’s going on here?” Hawke demanded. Aveline turned to him with relief.

“Thank the Maker you’re here.” Aveline strode over, one hand resting on her sword. “There’s already fighting in the streets, and now neither one of them will listen to reason.”

Hawke realized with a jolt that one of the mages standing at Orsino’s side was Bethany. She eyed Meredith with unease, and when she finally looked at him her expression was masking fear.

"This does not involve you, Champion,” Meredith said, only for Orsino to again step forward with hostility. Both of them were one wrong move away from declaring open war.

Then Sebastian was there, armor-clad with bow in hand, righteous blue eyes blazing.

                “They are a danger to everyone, Hawke,” he said quickly, voice low as he stood between Varric and Fenris. “They cannot take their fight into the Chantry- the Grand Cleric won’t stand for it. Innocent mothers will be hurt.”

                “Agreed,” Hawke said.

                Now, to do the impossible.

 

"What I have done is protect the people of this city-”

"Is there any truth to what she's saying?"

"These are only her latest accusations, nothing more! And what if she does not find what she's looking for? How much further will she go to root out something that isn't there?"

 

“Tell me, Champion, that you have not seen with your own eyes what they can do, heard the lies of mages who seek power."

"They're not the only ones who lie and seek power."

 

"You would cast us all as villains, but it is not so!"

"I know. And it breaks my heart to do it, but we must be vigilant. If you cannot tell me another way, do not brand me a tyrant."

 

Around and around their arguments went, years-old, centuries old, until neither would even listen when Hawke commanded it, much less Aveline. Orsino turned abruptly and started up the Chantry steps.

"This is getting us nowhere. Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this,” he declared. Meredith pulled him back with a hiss.

" _You will not bring her grace into this_!"

                Hawke was ready to put an end to this. Right at that moment there were mages who had finally snapped against Meredith’s restrictions, and Templars who were zealously upholding a code that would drive them to murder innocents, and in front of him two blind leaders were pushing Kirkwall towards its second major disaster in three years.

                It had to end. He didn’t want another heroic moment for the Champion. He just wanted peace. He could get peace.

                "The Grand Cleric cannot help you!"

                _No._

Anders was at home. Anders was sleeping, and Orana had been instructed not to wake him. Hawke had even sent a message home, telling Anders to stay inside if he realized what was going on. Now, of all times, Anders _could not_ be in the open.

                But he was. He was standing right at the entry to Chantry grounds, black robes clasped tight around his diminishing frame, staff in hand, righteous fury in his eyes that looked like the only thing keeping him on his feet. It had been a difficult three days for him- sleeping off a mild fever brought on by sleeping in rain-chilled clothes, Hawke desperately trying to get him to eat more, waking up in the middle of the night to find Anders scribbling furiously on the desk at the corner and sometimes pausing to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, muttering about how he was trying, _trying_.

                And now he was staring down the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter.

                “Explain yourself, mage!” Meredith screamed, drawing her sword but not advancing. Hawke couldn’t make her stop, but Champion’s sway still kept her from attacking one of his companions. For now.

"I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals,” Anders declared, then rounded on Orsino, who couldn’t seem to comprehend Anders’ blatant disrespect. “While those who would lead us bow to their Templar jailers!"

Orsino’s face twisted. "How dare you speak to-"

"The Circle has failed us, Orsino. Even you should be able to see that,” Anders plowed on.

                Aveline clenched Hawke’s shoulder. “Stop him, _stop him._ Hawke-”

                “Anders-”

                A flash of blue, like broken pottery repaired with pure lyrium.

                Again, _No._

"The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures,” Justice boomed as Meredith staggered back, and Orsino’s eyes widened as he understood the creature in front of him. Hawke caught Bethany’s eye from across the distance. She looked at him in horror.

                He’d confided many things to her, but not this one.

                As soon as he had come, Justice was gone.

                "Anders, what have you done?!" Hawke yelled, striding over to the suddenly crumpled apostate. Anders didn’t look at him, and his back was to the Chantry. He spoke as if in a daze.

"There can be no turning back..." he murmured.

 

Meredith screamed. Orsino yelled. Red light spilled from the Chantry as magic tore it apart at its very foundations and debris rained down on the lower levels of the city, some stones as big as horse carts falling perilously close. All was sound and shaking ground and Fury.

                All Hawke could hear, piercingly, was Sebastian as he fell. The Chantry brother’s cry was agonizing where he collapsed to his knees and stared at the gleaming wreckage. Everything gone in a matter of seconds. So many lives lost.

"Maker have mercy..." Meredith breathed.

"There can be no peace." Anders still wouldn’t look at Hawke, and though his voice was that of a revolutionary, his body and expression were that a man defeated.

" _Elthina! No_! Maker, no!” Sebastian gasped. “She was your most faithful, your most beloved... Why didn't she listen to me?"

_I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry._

"Why? Why would you do such a thing?" Orsino demanded, forcing Anders to turn and face him with a mockery of pride. Hawke knew Anders, and this wasn’t Anders.

"I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise."

 

The Chantry explosion removed the chance of compromise. The death of the Grand Cleric removed the chance of compromise. And the invocation of the Right of Annulment removed even the chance of one-sided peace.

 

"The Circle didn't even do this! Champion, you can't let her! Help us stop this madness!"

"And I demand you stand with _us_! Even you must see this outrage cannot be tolerated!"

                Somewhere between Meredith and Orsino Hawke focused on Sebastian again. The noble-hearted archer who had, for the past three years, done his best not to fuel vengeance’s sway and instead dedicate himself to the Maker. Now he swore murder in front of them all, even if no-one was listening.

"Why are we debating the right of annulment when the monster who did this is right here? I swear to you, I will kill him!" he snarled, and Hawke knew with dreadful certainty that Sebastian wouldn’t hesitate.

 

"It can't be stopped now. You have to choose." Anders’ voice was small, suddenly, next to him, though they were feet away from each other.

"I could have stopped you,” Hawke said brokenly. It sounded weak even to his own ears. _I should have stopped you._

"No. This had to happen. The circle is an injustice, in many places beyond Kirkwall. The world needs to see!" It was Anders when he first met him. It was Anders three days ago. It was the pure-hearted, stupid, brave man who once told Hawke that if he had to die to effect change, he would.

But this?!

This was senseless. This was not the man he loved.

“ _Why_?” Hawke yelled suddenly, rounding on Anders. “Why would you do this? The Grand Cleric, the mages… their blood is on your hands now!”

“I know-”

                “You promised. You _promised_ you would be patient. Anders, dammit, you told me that we would figure this out together and you would _wait_!”

                Every word was a blow that tore apart a piece of the blazing conviction that kept Anders standing, but Hawke couldn’t stop himself until everything was stripped away. Until there was nothing but Anders’ raw soul and the truth of it and what he was willing to sacrifice. The truth of the fact that Anders had never been _just_ “Anders.”

                And then the fight was gone. Hawke felt tears blocking his throat, burning his eyes like the dust of the Chantry’s remains.

                “Why didn’t you _trust me_? This didn’t help anyone, Anders. You’ve turned everyone against the mages now,” he said.

                Anders quirked a smile. “Was anyone ever with us?”

The accusation hit him like a blow. _Were_ you _ever with us Garrett?_

 _Yes, yes!_ he wanted to scream. _Of course I was, but I was also on the side of_ order _, not anarchy! Maker... Not this._

“You cannot punish all mages for the actions of one!” Orsino was saying suddenly.

"It doesn't matter now.” It took everything in Hawke to turn away from Anders. To the immediate threat. Anders had already done all the harm he could. “Even if I wished to, I could not stay my hand. The people will demand blood,” Meredith said with some semblance of sadness. What a fraud.

                “ _Champion_ ,” Orsino begged.

Hawke squeezed his eyes shut.

" _I. Don't. Want. To Get. Involved. In. This_." Each word gritted out, a vain prayer, the first time he’d ever wished he was a coward. Wished more than ever, even though he knew now that he could make a different. That he was the _only_ one who could make a difference.

"You are already involved. You are the champion of Kirkwall. Do your duty, or fall with these mages. It is your choice,” Meredith snapped. Her Templars were already making formation, as Orsino’s mages drew their staffs. Bethany was among them.

Garrett Hawke believed in the Templar Order. He believed that magic was dangerous and needed oversight. But he also believed- _knew_ \- that mages were people. That tearing them away from their lives and telling them that they were monsters was not the way to make everyone safer.

                He also knew, intimately and horrifyingly, what damage magic could do to those who did not have it.

                But. "Meredith needs to be stopped," he said, and waited for everyone to realize what that meant.

She needed to be stopped, and Maker, at what cost? He couldn’t think long-term right now like he usually did. He had to act based on what he knew- that Meredith wore all the trappings of madness, that for every corrupt Mage there was one like Bethany, and that there was no sense or justice in letting innocents get slaughtered.  In this moment he had to be a defender, even if he was defending against those whose mandate he understood and supported.

"I knew you wouldn’t abandon us,” Bethany breathed. He looked up. He knew, to his very bones, that this was where he was meant to be.

                Protecting her. Protecting his baby sister, where he had failed to protect every other member of his family. The Maker would not have another Hawke at his side. Not today.

"You sure about this? Even you might not win this fight," Varric counseled, though Hawke knew he wasn’t seriously encouraging them to join Meredith or run away.

"Ah, shit. What have you gotten yourself into this time, Isabela?" Isabela murmured. But she didn’t move to leave. In fact, she drew her knives and started eyeing the Templars warily.

"Think carefully Champion. Stand with them, and you share their fate,” Meredith warned. She wasn’t hiding her violent intentions now. If she had her way, every mage in Kirkwall would be dead before this night was over.

"I would prefer their fate to yours,” he said honestly. “I won’t abandon innocent people to your wrath.”

And in the end- miracle of miracles- neither would his friends. Even Fenris, who hated magic- but did not hate Bethany- and Aveline, who informed him brusquely that this was treason, moved to his side.

When Meredith retreated to the Gallows and left half of her Templars to try to stop Hawke and the mages, no-one hesitated to leap into the fray. It was over in a few breathless moments, the Templars dead and one of the mages, too. Bethany ran over and flung her arms around him with a choked sob.

                Then a Templar on the ground started to rise, one hand at his side, the other on his sword, going straight for Anders- only for several grasping vines to burst from the stone and stop him so completely even his cry was cut off.

                “Daisy!” Varric called in surprise, as a lithe figure detached herself from the shadows and moved past the vine-wrapped Templar, who had stopped struggling to look up at her in fear. She ignored him as she continued to pad towards Hawke and the others. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my note?”

                “I couldn’t just stay home, Varric- not when Hawke needs us,” she said stubbornly. Her fingers tightened on her staff- the only thing she’d kept of her clan and people. Maker, she looked so small, standing amidst the rubble and bodies. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that Merrill was perhaps more dangerous than all of them, despite her earnest heart. Though, sometimes it was that heart that _made_ her dangerous.

                “It’s open season on mages here- you should be in the alienage, hiding!” Varric insisted, looking pained. Merrill’s smile with completely without fear.

                “Cowards and blood mages hide. If Kirkwall is in danger, I’m going to stand with my friends. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t.”

                _My friends._ The statement was made without malice or exclusion, Merrill’s promise of defense expanding to all of them assembled. With her here, it really did seem like things were ending, somehow. Maybe because it was always Merrill who realized the important things first. Like what was coming or what wasn’t. When it was time to tell someone you loved them, and time to let go.

                _“Do you think we’ll win?” Merrill asks absently, eyes roving to take in the sights and sounds of the Wounded Coast on such an unusually sunny day. Aveline frowns at her._

_“Win what?”_

_“I don’t know. I just got the feeling all of a sudden, that something’s ending. Do you think we’ll win?”_

“Champion,” Orsino called, wrenching Hawke’s attention to where the elf knelt next to one of his people, a bloody cloth to the older woman’s forehead. “I must return to the Gallows. Meet me there as soon as you can. I will leave your… _friend_ for you to deal with.”

                And then everyone’s attention was on Anders.

 

Anders sat away from him like he was waiting for a knife in the back. Maybe he was.

                Hawke approached warily.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself,” Anders started, miserable. “Vengeance... took me over. I couldn't stop him.”

It was a bitter question, one that stung Hawke’s mouth just to say it, but it was necessary. “Did you even try, Anders?” It was wrong, too. Of course Anders tried, of course he was _always_ trying. Necessary, wrong, unfair. So much about this was unfair. But then, Garrett had never believed it would be. He just believed he could make more of a difference than he had, in the end.

“…Justice once told me that demons are just spirits perverted by their desires. I made my friend a demon. And he did this." Anders hung his head.

"Do not hide behind your spirit! It was your hand that did this,” Sebastian snarled, and it was only Hawke standing between them that kept Sebastian from nocking an arrow and pulling back the string, Hawke was sure.

_Your hands. Your healer’s hands._

But they stood in the ruin of so many lives, and Sebastian was right. That was Anders. Not Anders as he should be, but these were the consequences of actions done while he was not in his right mind. They couldn’t be ignored. They couldn’t be judged, either.

Anders shifted behind him. "Kill me now before there is nothing left of me." Maker, he sounded so small.

“You know what must be done!” Sebastian insisted. “What if I had been in the Chantry today?”

"He’s right,” Aveline said. “Belief is no excuse, and sincerity does not justify... _this_."

One by one, his companions sounded their opinions, and they were no more in agreement than they had ever been. Merrill said he should join them and atone. Fenris told Hawke to grant him the death he desired. Isabela added something typically noncommittal, but not damning.

"I think I'm sick of mages and Templars,” Varric summed up. He was looking at the Chantry remains, but anger was etched into every part of him. Kirkwall was in Varric’s bones, and thanks to Anders it was this much closer to destruction.

                Garrett had dealt justice on so many men. But killing Anders was not justice. Punishing him for a thing he could not control, that he lived with and fought with and once upon a time trusted Hawke with… there was no justice in that.

 

“Whatever you do, just do it,” Anders said.

"I know you would have changed it if you could,” Hawke replied.

"But I have proven I cannot. If I couldn't control Vengeance now, I never will. I need to die."

"Help me defend the mages."

Anders started.

"You mean... stay with you?"

_Yes. Yes, stay with me. Never leave my side. I will never forget, but in this moment I am choosing to love you in spite of it. I promised I would always forgive you. It might take longer this time, but I won’t break that promise._

Instead: “Yes.”

                Anders rose with uncertainty, looking at his once-friends, not looking at Hawke.

                “A-alright.”

 

Sebastian threw off every patient inclination the Maker had given him. He threw off Hawke’s friendship. He made a vow on the bones of the Grand Cleric to gather Starkhaven’s armies and raise Kirkwall to the ground if that was what it took to kill Anders.

                “I thought I knew you, Hawke,” he said. “But I do not. When I return, you will see what true justice is.”

                He left, and no-one stopped him, and Varric boldly met Hawke’s eyes in the silence afterwards.

                _I understand his anger and his pain,_ Varric’s eyes said. _But I understand loyalty more._

Only one friend lost tonight, then. So far.

 

"I should have trusted you. Even with all we've shared, I never thought you would spare my life.”

Of all the things to kill him, Hawke was sure those words would. All the pain and trust and Anders had still expected to die. Perhaps they would all die tonight- Meredith and her Templars were on the Gallows’ doorstep, and Orsino was looking more unhinged by the minute. It was all too likely that Hawke had led them here to die.

“But I will never be safe in Kirkwall. Or anywhere, probably. I’ll be hunted relentlessly,” Anders said. He hadn’t touched Hawke in all the time they’d been fighting, or even now, when they had the chance to say goodbye more meeting Meredith’s men. He was so thin.

“Then we'll be fugitives together,” Hawke replied with more confidence than he felt. _Maker knows no-one will like me anymore after this either._ “They will not take the life I built. I won’t let them.”

 

He made a rousing speech. He told his friends, his sister, his lover, that this was not goodbye. In the end too many people died, and it was only by Cullen’s mercy that they all escaped on a stolen ship at the docks. Isabela informed Hawke- perhaps anticipating a guilty conscience, though that was far from his mind at the time- that it belonged to lyrium smugglers who were probably all dead anyway if the chaos was any indicator.

                Hawke didn’t hear. Instead he stood at bow and watched Kirkwall burn while they sailed away, and somewhere behind him Anders sat wrapped in equally stolen blankets. Asleep. Peaceful.

                Damn him.

                _I love him._

“Where now, Hawke? There are no bridges left to burn,” Fenris said tonelessly from behind him. When Hawke turned, the elf’s lyrium was still slightly aglow, and his stark white hair was dark with blood.

                “I don’t know, Fenris. But-”

                “Don’t thank me,” he growled. “I am still not sure what we did was right.”

                “Still. You’re here, and that’s more than I ever would have asked of you.”

                “If I was not here, I would be alone. I find this preferable,” Fenris said, and Hawke would have thought the elf was joking if it wasn’t for the present circumstances. Maybe he _was_ joking. It was a comforting thought.

                Hawke’s eyes fell on Anders. He was nothing but a pool of shadows by the stairs leading to the helm.

                “I will not pretend to understand why you chose him, or why you forgive him,” Fenris began slowly. “But I am here for you. And I will stay with you as long as you will have me.”

                “Oh, me too!” Merrill called from across the ship, as though eavesdropping was nothing to be ashamed of.

                “You wouldn’t have a ship without me, so I suppose I’m in too!” Isabela added from the helm.

                Varric waved a hand in Hawke’s direction, without turning away from the image of his retreating home. “I was never one for the safe road, anyways.”

                “I’ll have to return to Kirkwall eventually,” Aveline began, but Bethany knocked against her affectionately. “But I suppose I can stay as well. At least until I know you’re safe.”

                Damn them all.

                _I’m going to cry._

He didn’t cry, but it was alright, because his friends knew it didn’t mean he wouldn’t miss them.

 

He watched Aveline and Varric set out for Kirkwall.

 

He hugged Merrill goodbye before she, too, began the journey home, insistent on helping the next Dalish clan who settled near Kirkwall, and even any mages who managed to escape the city alive.

 

He got word that Sebastian had reclaimed the throne of Starkhaven, and was appealing to Divine Justinia V to call an Exalted March on Kirkwall.

 

Bethany hugged him goodbye before she, too, returned to Kirkwall, to check on Gamlen and Charade, and hopefully make the new Circle a better place than its predecessor.

 

Fenris stayed until he and Anders could no longer bare it, striking out when they neared the Tevinter border to make himself as much a thorn in his old country’s side as possible, namely by attacking slave caravans.

 

Isabela kissed them both passionately on the mouth when she dropped them on the coast of Fereldan, a home neither had seen in a very, very long time.

 

On the wind a war was brewing, Hawke’s name a blessing on mages’ lips, Anders’ a curse on every Templar’s. They would lie low. They would run. Hawke would do whatever it took to make Anders healthy and happy and safe, even if he could never rip Justice away like he desperately wished to.

                For the first time in eight years, they were completely free.

                _I will not fail in this._

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, let me know! I'm thinking about writing more for them! (I'll be writing more DA2 anyways- my female Fenhawke story just isn't done yet...)
> 
> UPDATE: for those interested in Anders and the mental health discussions surrounding him, and who are maybe a little confused by the route I took the rivalmance in this fic, here's a tumblr post I found that's pretty in-depth and thought-out: http://bubonickitten.tumblr.com/post/99044613528/i-have-a-metric-fuckton-of-feelings-about-how (for those of us like me, who didn't give Anders' mental state the consideration it deserved when first playing DA2)


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